


Burning Bridges

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Boss/Employee Relationship, Care of Magical Creatures, Co-workers, F/M, HP: EWE, Humor, Magic, Ministry of Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That was not in the job description!"</p><p>This lament pretty much sums up Hermione's life in her current job.  Little did she know, when she accepted the position, that she would end up being an on-call nanny/gal Friday/consultant/personal shopper/confidante for Draco Malfoy.  In addition to being his solicitor, of course.  Enough is enough, however.  Something has to give.</p><p>Written for Round 6 of the Dramione Couples Remix.  My chosen couple were Lucy Kelson and George Wade from the movie, "Two Weeks' Notice."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  


[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/Burning%20Bridges%20banner.jpg.html)

  
  
  
  
  


June 2010

  
  


“Draco.”

The summons was flatly imperious, brooking no argument or delay.

Draco Malfoy slowly withdrew his feet from their resting place on his desk, swinging his long legs around to the floor with a small sigh. He stood, stretched, and then ambled down the corridor to his father’s office, a luxuriously appointed, cavernous room not far from his own somewhat more modest space. “Modest” was a relative term, of course, as he’d be forced to concede if pressed; nothing about any part of Malfoy Enterprises could be described as plain, small, or lacking in amenities. 

Rapping lightly, he gave the door a push. It swung open and he poked his head in. “What can I do for you, Father?”

Lucius Malfoy sat back in his chair of richly burnished leather, silently tapping the tips of his fingers together for several long seconds as he gazed inscrutably at his son. 

Draco knew that face. He’d seen it too many times before. It was his father’s “I’ve a very important project that needs immediate attention, but can I trust Draco to make a proper job of it?” face.

This unspoken lack of faith was hardly new or surprising. It clung to Draco like a second skin whenever his father was around, had done for years. The very anticipation of it triggered an old impulse to shut down, withdraw, put on the familiar, acquiescent mask. Acquiescence was what Lucius Malfoy expected; he didn't much care whether his son's heart was in it. 

“You know you’re going to tell me at some point, so you might as well tell me now," Draco remarked drily. "What do you need doing? Buttering up that dreadful hag at the Prophet for some good publicity? Liaising with the Ministry to clear the way for that office tower we’ve got on the drawing board? Maybe making that approval particularly worth their while?” 

Lucius shook his head. “All of that will need your attention in due time, yes. But that’s not the reason I called you in here just now. Arminius Wentworth has packed up his office and left.”

Wentworth? Draco blinked, startled, and dropped into the nearest chair, still staring. ME’s solicitor had been a trusted fixture in the company for twenty years, two thirds of Draco’s lifetime. 

“Why? What’s happened?”

Lucius tightened his lips, the expression in his grey eyes turning hard. “Simple. I’ve sacked him. He’d been stealing from the company for years, apparently, but he grew careless in the end and betrayed himself. No need to go into details, but suffice it to say, it wasn’t pretty.”

Nor would the retribution Lucius Malfoy would surely exact, Draco knew. It would be quiet, but it would be effective. Deadly effective.

“As a result, Malfoy Enterprises is in need of a new solicitor. Someone who is absolutely above reproach, with an unimpeachable legal pedigree. Someone whose track record speaks for itself and is also without blemish of the smallest sort. In addition, our choice should offer indisputable proof that at ME, we move with the times, don’t you agree?”

Draco nodded, though with some uncertainty. Where was his father headed with this?

“By that, I mean that our new solicitor should be a woman or person of colour, possibly both. He or she could perhaps be a half-blood.”

“Or even a Muggleborn,” Draco muttered, barely swallowing a snicker. The thought was as ridiculous as it was funny, considering this was Lucius Malfoy he was talking to.

“A Muggleborn! Inspired idea! That would surely shut our critics up.” Lucius let out a small snort of derisive laughter. “By the gods, can you imagine the looks on their faces, those pompous, politically correct arses!”

“And,” Draco replied slowly, incredulous now, “I take it you wish me to find somebody to fill the post?”

“Correct.” Lucius leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his midsection, his fingers toying idly with the small, pearly buttons of his waistcoat. “We need somebody in place immediately. Nothing can go forward without reliable in-house counsel to oversee everything.”

“Especially the fine print,” Draco said under his breath.

“Indeed.” Lucius rose to his feet, a clear signal that the conversation had come to an end. His expression remained implacable, his hearing excellent. “Most especially the fine print.”

Where to begin searching for a solicitor who would meet all of the criteria his father had specified and still play ball when required, while maintaining the utmost discretion? Did such a person even exist, Draco wondered as he made his way down the corridor to his office.

Flopping down in his desk chair, he frowned, his eyes drifting shut as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. And then one eye opened, followed by the other, his gaze falling upon the front page of the late edition of the Daily Prophet. There, a young woman was seen to be gesturing irately at a Ministry functionary at some meeting or other, her dark robes billowing around her arms, loose curls falling into her face from a bun that seemed on the verge of unravelling. 

A slow, satisfied smile edged its way across Draco’s face and he sat back in the chair, his eyes still on the young woman in the photo. 

Sometimes, his own brilliance was quite astonishing even to him.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“Calm down, Hermione. Sparks are coming out of your ears!”

The red-haired witch chuckled and leaned forward to give her friend a comforting pat on the arm. 

The young woman seated behind the desk glowered, blowing a tendril of hair out of her face with a determined huff. 

“It just makes me so angry, that’s all! Bloody Marshall and his bloody associates – toadies, really, let’s face it – are having their bloody way with the Minister on this one and he’s just lapping it up, the swine!” Hermione Granger sighed and shook her head dispiritedly. “You would think, wouldn’t you, that Krumholtz would see through their rubbish. But instead, he’s bought right into it. Or _been_ bought. Either way, if Marshall and Co. get their way, the colony of dire wolves in the New Forest will be hunted down and destroyed! Innocent creatures that – ”

“Don’t really belong in the New Forest in the first place,” Ginny Weasley Potter gently reminded her friend.

“Granted. However they got there, whatever misguided wizard or witch decided to bring a breeding pair to England, now they are there. And they don’t deserve to be hunted down and slaughtered just because some members of the Ministry have chosen to pander to those in the business community who would see all government regulations abolished in the name of individual ‘freedoms.’” Hermione gazed with sudden ferocity at her friend. “Wildlife needs legal protections, not a declaration of open season! Makes me positively ill, seeing women wearing fur-trimmed robes and knowing exactly where that beautiful fur came from!”

Ginny nodded. Everything Hermione had said was true. It was unfortunate, but the conservative wing of the Ministry was like a juggernaut these days, barrelling along and running roughshod over the more liberal factions with their deeply traditional (“Read ‘reactionary!’” Hermione had spat in one of their recent conversations) rhetoric and unquestioning support of business and private industry. Pressure from more progressive special interest groups had done little more than offer a brief halt to the massive push for deregulation to which the Minister of Magic was apparently acquiescing. 

Hermione was still ranting, oblivious to the fact that Ginny had momentarily drifted off into the realm of her own thoughts. 

“ – greedy, self-serving tossers with their heads up their arses!”

“Who?” Ginny asked. It was a fair question, as that particular description could easily apply to rather a lot of people she could think of.

Hermione heaved an exasperated sigh. “Merlin, haven’t you been listening at _all?_ The so-called captains of industry, that’s who! Lucius Malfoy, for one. He’s one of the worst offenders! Doesn’t give a damn about the bigger picture, does he. It’s all about profit. As if he isn’t already as rich as Croesus! It’s positively disgusting. I read in today’s Prophet that Malfoy Enterprises plans to market a new line of dire wolf furs, very high end and chic. Somehow, he’s managed to nail down exclusive rights to trapping in the New Forest once legal protections have been eliminated. ME is pushing very hard for that, though I don’t think Lucius Malfoy need worry too much. Marshall’s very securely in his pocket. And he’s not the only one. Those pockets are pretty deep.”

Ginny nodded again. Hermione’s analysis was spot on. At this point, though, what could be done? It appeared that the loss of legal protections was virtually a fait accompli. She said as much and got exactly the reaction she’d expected.

Hermione was on her feet now, eyes blazing. “Oh, if you think I’m giving up, you’re very much mistaken! I wasn’t at the top of my law class for nothing. I’ll find a way to stop him. And then I’ll make an example of him for his precious cronies. You’ll see! This fight isn’t over, Gin, not by a long shot!”

Pausing by the door of Hermione’s office, Ginny glanced back at her friend and smiled ruefully. Hermione’s head was already bent over a legal text; no doubt she would be burning the midnight oil once again, buried under piles of law books and scrolls, if the mounting collection of take-away cartons in the wastebasket were anything to go by. But Ginny knew something else as well: Hermione was absolutely in her element and utterly tenacious when crusading. 

‘She’s bitten off quite a mouthful this time, though,’ the redhead reflected. ‘I hope she won’t end up choking on it.’  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The corridors of power needed a good cleaning, Hermione decided, wrinkling her nose as dust assailed her nostrils. She was striding down one such hallway in the Ministry, dark robes flaring behind her, her heels clicking on the old flooring, on her way to a meeting with the Minister himself and very likely, a select group of Ministry officials including Quintus Marshall. Business people with a keen interest in the outcome of possible industry deregulation would be there as well, all of them ready to twist the Minister's arm. Left up to that lot, his arm would resemble a pretzel, she thought grimly. Her mouth set in a determined line, Hermione hugged her briefcase to her chest a bit more tightly. If it was a fight they wanted, she would be happy to oblige. She’d done the research – it was all right here in this briefcase – and she was ready for them, by Merlin.

The Minister’s secretary, a pudgy woman in her late fifties with a penchant for too much blood-red lipstick, smiled pleasantly as Hermione approached her desk. 

“Go right in; they’re waiting for you,” she said, waving an absent hand. Then she smiled once again, this time conspiratorially, as if to say, ‘This should be good.’ And was that a little wink?

Hermione grinned back. “Thanks, Beryl,” she murmured. It would probably take about five seconds once the inner office door had closed behind her for Beryl to be out of her seat, her ear to the door.

The door to the Minister’s private office was made of heavy, old oak. It was impossible not to appreciate its beauty even as Hermione was girding herself to enter what was feeling rather like a gladiatorial arena full of really bloody-minded dragons. She let her fingertips rest lightly on the fine old wood for just a moment, drew a breath, and then knocked.

“Come!” came the gravelly reply from inside.

The door swung open and Hermione stepped in, fully expecting to see the usual coterie of men in late middle age, brushing ashes from their expensive cigars off their even more expensive business robes. Instead, surprisingly, there were just two men: Krumholtz, quite naturally, and a much younger man. He was tall and blond and wearing robes that were so beautifully tailored that they must have cost quite a tidy packet. His back was to Hermione as she entered; then he turned, the brief movement exuding all the easy grace and confidence of a dancer.

Draco bloody Malfoy.

He smiled and held out his hand. “Well, well. Granger, as I live and breathe. Look at you. It’s been years. At least ten, surely. How the hell are you?” 

His hand remained hanging in the air for a full ten seconds, as did his question, before Hermione reclaimed her wits and extended her own, their fingertips touching lightly before his hand briefly closed over hers. His palm was warm and quite dry to the touch. 

“I... I’m just fine,” she managed. _Breathe. So what if Malfoy’s here? You’re not going to let a small surprise throw you._ Her chin came up. “Perfect, actually. What are _you_ doing here?” 

“Oh, well, I’m here representing my father, of course. He was unavoidably detained, so he asked me to stand in for him. Will that be acceptable to you? If not, I can always –”

Hermione shook her head. “No, no, that’s fine. Let’s get to work, shall we? I believe we have a legislative amendment to discuss.”

Krumholtz beckoned her toward the oblong conference table that was set for a breakfast meeting, a jovial smile creasing his heavy, paunchy cheeks. “Do sit down, Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy. I thought we might enjoy a light repast before we get down to business.” 

By the look of him, there had been a good many “light repasts” opening the meetings he’d chaired during his tenure as Minister of Magic. There were slices of buttered toast and crumpets, stewed fruits, a variety of thick jams, and a large platter of scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, and grilled tomatoes. An urn of steaming coffee stood on the sideboard, along with an ornate china teapot and a jug of cream. 

A moment later, right on cue, a house-elf appeared and began scurrying about the mahogany-panelled room, filling plates and pouring coffee with expert flicks of his long fingers. 

“Now then. This looks very nice indeed. Thank you, Algernon.” The Minister beamed broadly in the little house-elf’s direction as the diminutive creature backed away, nodding deferentially, and then vanished with a snap of his long fingers. “The brain works better when it’s been fortified, I always say. Don’t you agree, Ms. Granger?” Krumholtz turned a satisfied smile in Hermione’s direction.

The image of a St. Bernard who’d just happily dug up a stash of bones flashed unbidden through Hermione’s head, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing, dutifully returning his smile instead. Stabbing at the mound of scrambled eggs before her, she forked up a bite and cleared her throat.

“Mr. Krumholtz, Malfoy… you both know why I’m here. The future of dire wolves in the New Forest is now in very serious jeopardy, thanks to the efforts of certain individuals and the interests they represent to deregulate their management and turn it over to those who stand to benefit most: the fur trade and everyone connected to it, from the trappers to the fashion industry. 

“Of course,” she continued, “what these parties aim to do will ultimately self-destruct, as the dire wolf population has only just rebounded at last, after many years of careful management and strictly enforced protections. It is still very fragile. Lifting those protections will shatter that fragile recovery and undo all the progress we have made to bring the dire wolf back. Perhaps” – and here Hermione fixed a baleful eye on Draco – “certain parties are unaware of the place in our magical heritage of these magnificent creatures. Because they’d been hunted nearly to extinction many years ago, they passed into the realm of myth and legend, and most people came to believe they’d never been anything more than that, a make-believe creature in a fairy tale or bedtime story. But they are real, unique, very special – and rare. I do realise that their very rarity is what makes them so valuable. But I believe that their far greater value lies in remaining a viable part of both our ecosystem and our magical heritage, not becoming a trendy, expensive, dead fashion statement.”

Here, Hermione paused, looking first at Krumholtz and then at Draco. Both appeared slightly shell-shocked, and she wondered if this were the product of a presentation that had had a real impact or if she’d merely talked them into a state of near stupefaction. 

Draco was the first to rouse himself for a response. _Leave it to Granger. Always the crusader._ He stifled a smirk and gazed at her, dead serious. “As it happens, I couldn’t agree more.”

At this, Hermione’s head snapped up and she gaped at him.

“Our heritage and history are vitally important,” he went on smoothly. “As a pillar of wizarding society –”

Here, Hermione couldn’t help rolling her eyes, her lips pursed in ill-concealed disgust. 

“ – Malfoy Enterprises has always supported the furtherance of both,” he continued, undeterred. “For this reason, I have met with my father and the board of trustees and proposed an alternative to the original plan, which they have accepted.”

Apparently, this was news to the Minister of Magic as well. He set down his coffee cup, harrumphing his clear irritation. “Mr. Malfoy, I would have appreciated being informed of any change being introduced to the discussion.”

“My apologies for any inconvenience, sir,” Draco responded with an ingratiating smile. 

Hermione bit back a snort. _Arse kisser. Typical Malfoy._

“However, the board only just voted fairly late yesterday; this was really the earliest opportunity we had to put the new plan on the table.” Draco paused, letting the weight of his words sink in and percolate a bit.

“So?” Hermione folded her arms and cocked a wary eyebrow. “What is the new plan, then?”

“Simple. We propose to develop an artificial version of dire wolf fur that will look and feel absolutely authentic. It will be marketed as the environmentally friendly and far more humane alternative to the real thing. Consumers will love it.” Draco sat back, raising his coffee cup to his lips. 

He looked supremely pleased with himself, Hermione decided. But honestly, this had to be a load of rubbish or some sort of weird joke. 

“Why now, Malfoy? I mean, such an idea was considered ages ago and rejected outright by Malfoy Enterprises and its competitors. The argument your father used at the time, if I remember correctly, ran along the lines of ‘why market a fake when the real thing is available?’ He said that Malfoy Enterprises stood for quality, and that meant never misrepresenting any of its products. I remember his words distinctly. He _even_ said,” she went on, warming to her subject, “that it wouldn’t matter if the dire wolf went extinct, that in fact, such an event would only make the harvested fur that much more valuable. I believe he was actually looking forward to their extinction!”

“Hmm, yes,” the Minister remarked. “Point taken, Ms. Granger. Well, what say you to that, Mr. Malfoy? Because of course, if such a proposal were genuine, I would be only too happy to accept it as a most felicitous solution. I’ve no doubt that Quintus Marshall and the others would be on board with it as well. But I’m not sure I find your statements sufficiently credible.”

Draco seemed untroubled by these concerns. Smiling serenely, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an envelope. “I thought you might have a question or two. My father has written a statement that should erase all doubt. Here, have a look.”

He laid the envelope down on the table and pushed it in the Minister’s direction. After a quick scan of its contents, Krumholtz handed the parchment to Hermione, who read it quickly and with undisguised surprise. 

It was the reaction Draco had both expected and hoped for. His conciliatory smile was disarming. “There, you see? It’s all right there in black and white. My father has signed off on the idea, as have all the ME board members. Can’t ask for more than that, can you.”

No, Hermione decided, that was true enough. And it did seem absolutely authentic. Odd, though, that ME would suddenly shift gears and opt for a plan that it had roundly rejected several times in recent years. However, only a fool would look a gift horse in the mouth, and Hermione was anything but.

One final question, then, just to be safe. There had to be a catch. “What does your father want in return?”

Apparently, the Minister had been thinking along much the same lines. He was too well versed in the ways of ministry politics not to smell a rat, or think he did, anyway. “I share Ms. Granger’s concerns, Mr. Malfoy. Surely ME is expecting some sort of quid pro quo for such a huge concession.”

Draco smiled charmingly and at the flash of his very white teeth, Hermione shivered despite herself. “None whatsoever,” he replied. “At least not from the Ministry.”

Hermione couldn’t help herself. “Who from, then?” she demanded.

“You.”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Hermione sat back in her chair, surprise, curiosity and suspicion all vying for control of her expression. In the end, suspicion won out and she narrowed her eyes, leaning forward once again.

“Me. What in the name of Merlin do you –” 

“It’s quite simple, really,” he replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “ME is in need of a new solicitor. My father sacked our old one.” 

“Armenius Wentworth? You’re joking!” Hermione broke in, her mouth falling open involuntarily. Everyone in the legal community knew Armenius Wentworth, or knew of him at any rate. He’d made sure that his reputation as the slickest, meanest, most dangerous shark in the profession preceded him at every possible turn. The fact that he was chief counsel for Malfoy Enterprises added a certain rather intimidating gravitas, all of which made him a most formidable force in the Wizengamot or any boardroom. That he’d been sacked was a shock, something almost unimaginable. She stared at Draco, wide-eyed. “What on earth did he do?”

“He was a thief,” Draco replied. “And because eventually, he grew sloppy in his thievery, he was a fool as well. I needn’t tell either of you that my father does not suffer fools gladly,” he added grimly. Then he appeared to shake off the darkness of those words and smiled pleasantly at Hermione.

“Anyway, as I said, we are now in need of a solicitor to handle our legal affairs. We’re looking for someone of considerable intelligence and integrity, with an absolutely impeccable record. In addition, we want –”

“A woman, I bet.” One corner of Hermione’s mouth rose in a slight, knowing smile. “Even better, a Muggleborn. Right?” She looked pointedly at Draco and found affirmation in his eyes. “Well, well, how very politically correct of ME. Whose idea was this, anyway?”

“My father’s, of course,” Draco replied airily. “And mine, too. The Muggleborn bit. And you. You are precisely what we need at ME: you’re brilliant, successful in private practice, and you have a stainless reputation as a do-gooder who gets things done.”

This was fast becoming a private discussion, and suddenly, that fact occurred to the Minister of Magic, because he abruptly and rather noisily cleared his throat. 

“Don’t mind me,” he muttered wryly. “I’ll just go about my business.”

Hermione looked askance at Krumholtz, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. 

“Apologies, sir,” she began hastily. “We were just –”

The Minister waved a hand impatiently. “Carry on. If you lot can sort all this out and come up with a workable package I can present to the others, it’s all to the good. I would suggest, Ms. Granger,” he added, his tone dropping markedly, “that you very seriously consider ME’s offer. It appears that everything you seek – everything we all want – hinges on your acceptance of the position.”

Hermione nodded slowly, the full weight of the situation settling uncomfortably on her slight shoulders. _You mean, it all hinges on me selling myself out._ She turned back to Draco. “Your father wants someone who will make the company look good. Give it a certain above-board respectability, or the veneer of it, anyway. I get that. But are you expecting me to carry on with the sorts of unsavoury and very likely illegal activities Wentworth was surely involved in on ME’s behalf? Because I won’t, you know. I do things my way. If you hire me, you should know what you’re getting.” 

Draco gave a sage nod. “Oh, we do, Granger. Believe me. We do. It’s exactly what we want. And just think," he went on. "If you accept this job offer, you’ll have the resources at your disposal to fund all manner of worthy projects. I can see it now. You’ll have us handing out money left and right to all the charities and causes you support. Even...” He paused, trying to remember. “What was it you were always on about when we were at school? SPAWN?”

Hermione sighed. “SPEW.”

“Right. SPEW. Still knitting those silly little hats, are you?” He chuckled briefly, ignoring her scowl. “Well, now you’ve got the chance to really make a difference. Think what you could accomplish with Malfoy money behind you. The sky’s the limit.”

This was certainly true and something she could hardly ignore in good conscience. “And,” she replied now, her words slow and deliberate as she looked Draco squarely in the eye, “you _promise_ to drop the plans for harvesting dire wolf fur and dismantling their legal protections?”

“Wizard’s honour,” he told her solemnly. “Both mine and my father’s. We promise. Mr. Krumholtz is my witness.”

Summoning up a resolve she didn’t entirely feel, Hermione leaned forward and stuck out her hand. “All right, then. I accept.”

A broad smile broke out on Draco’s face. Relief and exultation filled him. He’d done it. He’d got Granger for ME. What a feather in his cap this would be! She was precisely what his father had specified, and – he couldn’t help a small, private smirk at the realisation – probably a good deal more as well. It was a most entertaining and amusing prospect, and he found himself looking forward with some relish to the battles royal that would inevitably ensue. 

Grasping her hand in his, he shook it warmly. 

“Excellent!” he enthused. “Welcome aboard! You won’t regret it.” He turned to the Minister, who was beaming now.

The weight that had burdened Septimus Krumholtz’ shoulders had now been lifted, and he could look forward to meetings with the other Ministry officials that would be free of acrimony, at least for a while. In the end, they would all certainly support this new, less contentious alternative, shocked though they would no doubt be that Lucius Malfoy had backed down. There would be some wariness too, on the parts of some, about what Malfoy might be angling for instead, and invariably, some suspicion. But Krumholtz could deal with all that. Piece of cake, in fact. He’d cut his political teeth on situations just as potentially dicey and requiring a certain finesse, and he’d always savoured the challenge. This would be no different.

In the meanwhile, Draco was tugging on Hermione’s hand. “Come along, Granger. We’re going out for a celebratory drink.”

“At ten-thirty in the morning?” Surprised, Hermione found herself being ushered out of the Minister’s private office.

He smiled serenely. “No worries. We’ll stroll, and it’ll be elevenses before you know it. Good day, Minister,” he called over his shoulder. “Thanks for breakfast and a most productive meeting.”

“Oh yes,” she added lamely, feeling as though her manners and all her common sense had just deserted her and flown out the window. “Thanks awfully, sir. It was –”

“Never mind, Granger. He can’t hear you now.” Draco laughed and tucked her arm through his. This was going to be fun, and it didn’t hurt that Granger had grown rather easy on the eyes over the last ten years. “Come on. I know a marvellous place where we can talk. About the job, of course.”

Watching their retreating figures disappear through the outer door into the corridor beyond, Beryl shook her head, smiling cannily to herself. Whatever had happened in there must have been better than merely good. She’d only caught faint snatches of the conversation – bloody door was too thick! – but she reckoned a minor miracle must have just occurred. She’d have bet serious money on an explosion of tempers, given the well-known volatility and personal history of two of the participants, and the equally well-known tradition of animosity between the Malfoys and those they considered to be of inferior birth. Instead, they’d emerged arm in arm, Draco Malfoy grinning like the cat who’d swallowed the cream. Admittedly, Hermione Granger had looked just the slightest bit dazed, Beryl had noted with glee. But the pretty young solicitor wasn’t protesting as they went out the door.

What she wouldn’t give, Beryl thought, touching up her makeup and giving her freshly rouged lips a resounding smack, to be a fly on the wall wherever Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were off to. Where that might be and what they might talk about were definitely fodder for a whole day’s worth of delicious speculation. Just wait till she told the girls on the third floor.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  


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22 May 2013  
Wednesday night  
Three years later  


  
  


It had certainly been a memorable three years, Hermione reflected as she stepped under the jet of pulsing water and stood there, the stream easing the throbbing headache that was all too often her evening companion after a long day’s work at Malfoy Enterprises.

Memorable indeed. And “long” hardly covered it.

Work days were routinely fifteen hours, sometimes stretching even longer. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten dinner at home like a normal person at a normal time of the evening. All her working life, she’d always given two hundred percent to the job, but this post demanded a level of commitment and energy that blew even her notion of a workaholic to smithereens.

Of course, truth be told, not everything she did during the course of the day (and often into the evening, not to mention weekends) was strictly related to her position as ME’s chief counsel. Some of her duties, she considered with a grimace, had become rather more... well... _personal_ in nature. Personal, as in whatever Draco Malfoy deemed necessary and essential to his own welfare, strictly work related or not. 

Granted, such demands on her time were not entirely pointless, if one considered being consulted about the particular merits of pure silk versus a silk blend for neckties an implied acknowledgement of one’s good taste. Coming from an aesthete and dyed-in-the-wool blue blood like Draco Malfoy, this was no small thing. However, being dragged about from shop to shop as he tried to match this or that tie with the perfect, beautifully cut and tailored dress robes or suit was something else. The first time one of the shopkeepers inadvertently addressed her as “Mrs. Malfoy,” he was immediately set straight, and word got around; from that point on, all the others kept a respectful distance, though it was clear that they thought having one’s lawyer acting _in loco coniugis_ was more than a tad odd.

Shopping with Malfoy was not restricted to clothing, of course, as Hermione very quickly discovered. Nor was the extra-curricular activity restricted to shopping, for that matter. For one thing, there were the owls that appeared at the most inopportune moments, demanding an immediate response to this question or that. If she hadn’t known better, she might have suspected that sabotage was the goal, considering that often, those interruptions seemed to occur while she was out somewhere on a date. But of course, that was ridiculous, wasn’t it, she chided herself, as she lathered the shampoo into her hair with particular vehemence. _Malfoy has no interest in me personally. He’s an incorrigible flirt around practically every woman on the planet. He’s simply got atrocious timing, that’s all. It isn’t me._

An incident flashed into her thoughts, causing a shudder of embarrassment. It was the Malfoys’ annual New Year’s Eve party at the manor, six months into her tenure as in-house counsel. All management personnel were customarily invited, and it went without saying that Hermione, as the solicitor for the firm, would surely be there. 

The evening had moved along swimmingly, liquid being the operative word for many of the guests. A deceptively innocuous holiday punch flowed from a fountain in the centre of the Great Hall, around which small cocktail tables and chairs were arranged. In addition, bottles of the finest wines, champagnes, and whiskeys were readily available. Suffice it to say that most of the guests were well and truly smashed long before the evening came to an end.

To her everlasting chagrin and shame, Hermione had been no exception. The full potency of the punch had sneaked up on her unawares and delivered a mighty kick, though she had thought to be prudent by sticking only to the punch and not mixing a variety of spirits. One minute, everything had been in focus and all the humans were standing upright, and the next, the entire manor had been swimming in an alcoholic blur. Just as the floor had come rushing up to meet her, a pair of strong arms had caught her from behind.

“Can’t have our esteemed solicitor in a tangled heap on the floor, now can we?” The voice was deep, velvety smooth, and highly amused. “Very bad PR for the company, you know.”

Hermione had managed – barely – to turn her head just enough to see that the voice belonged to Draco, who now held her quite firmly in his arms. Propped her up, more accurately, because there was no way she could have stood on her own. She smiled beatifically at the blur of blond hair, crisp white dress shirt, black tie, and smart black dress robes.

“Can’t have that, no sir,” she giggled, a tiny hiccough escaping her. “One mus’ be professional, mustn’t one?”

“Indeed one must,” he’d agreed, nodding gravely. 

“Indeed,” she’d echoed, attempting to wriggle out of his grasp and taking one lurching step forward before her knees had begun to buckle once again. He’d been right there to scoop her up again, though this time he had deftly turned her so that they were now facing each other.

“You’re looking especially lovely tonight, Hermione,” Draco had said, his voice low and warm in her ear.

Had he just complimented her or had she imagined that? Hermione hadn’t been sure. But New Year’s Eve was a time for throwing caution to the wind, or so she’d drunkenly told herself, and she’d smiled lopsidedly.

“Thanks. You’re very pretty too, Malfoy. I’ve always thought so.” 

At that, Draco had quirked a smile that was surprised and faintly amused, but also, undeniably pleased.

“Care to elaborate?” The voice was a silken whisper tickling the curls around her ear.

Hermione had giggled again, laying her head on his chest and breathing in his scent, which was clean and very pleasantly masculine. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed it, and she took another appreciative whiff. “No, I would not. Your head is already big enough as it is.”

“That’s all right. I’d rather dance than talk anyway. Shall we? Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. Just lean on me.”

And she had. For four dances straight, she’d floated in his arms to the most divine music, the whole experience becoming more and more surreal and dream-like. 

“You know, Malfoy, you’re all right,” Hermione had murmured eventually as Draco steered her about the dance floor, her head resting heavily on his shoulder. “For a Malfoy, I mean.”

He’d arched an eyebrow, smiling faintly. “Oh yes? How very reassuring. To what do I owe such high praise from our brilliant but rather stonkered solicitor?”

With some effort, Hermione had raised her head to look him in the eye. “Well,” she began, _sotto voce_ , “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this…”

“Your secret is safe with me, I promise.” 

She giggled then, resting her head once again in its spot on his very comfy shoulder. “Right, well… it’s like this. I’m single.”

This wasn’t exactly news. Draco bit back the urge to laugh. “Yes. True. As am I.”

“Yes, but see, you _want_ to be. You _like_ to date lots of women. You’ll never get serious. I don’t want to do that. Date lots of men, I mean. It would be so nice to find just one… But for some reason, I can’t seem to hold onto a relationship. Isn’t that sad?” she slurred. “Pathetic, really. I mean, I’m bright, I’m successful, I’m nice-looking…”

“Don’t forget modest,” he’d added, straight-faced.

“I’m a real catch,” she’d rattled on, apparently oblivious. “So my mum is always telling me, anyway. But somehow, nothing’s ever worked out with any of the men I’ve dated.”

She’d paused, looking plaintively up at Draco. “Why is that, Malfoy? What’s wrong with me? Tell me the truth.”

And then, before he had a chance to answer, she pressed on, her voice dipping unsteadily, words sliding together. “I mean, okay. I know... I’m not the easiest person. I’m a worka... a worka... what’s that word again?”

“Workaholic.”

“Thank you. Yeah, that. I know I’m that. And I have high standards and expectations. It’s just... I want everybody else to care as much as I do! Why be less than you can be, if you can be more? Don’t you think?”

She’d paused, thinking over what she had just said, and then gave a tiny snort of laughter. “That sounded weird. You know what I meant, right?”

He’d nodded solemnly. “Of course. I love a woman who speaks in riddles. Very sexy.”

At that, a peal of laughter had escaped her and she’d missed her footing, tottering a bit; Draco had hauled her back just before she backed into someone passing behind her. 

“Well,” she’d managed at last, “I don’t care anymore. Men! They’ll have to take me as I am. Or not at all. At least Crookshanks still likes me. And you.” 

That final burst of defiance must have been exhausting, because just as Draco had opened his mouth to agree with that last bit, her head had flopped back on his shoulder once again. Her eyelids had fluttered shut and she was breathing gently and evenly. Still swaying in his arms, she had slipped into a light doze.

Grinning, he’d drawn her closer, resting his cheek against the top of her head. Rant over. The silence was lovely.

Later, when she recalled the evening, it came back to her in bits and pieces. The earlier part of the evening was crystal clear in her memory. But then things began to get fuzzy and vague. She and Draco had danced, she remembered that well enough. Never had she felt lighter on her feet. But what they had talked about, if indeed they’d had any conversation, remained a total blank in her mind, and this was a peculiar and rather disconcerting sensation. Never before had she forgotten an entire block of time, gone from her head as if it had never happened. The next thing she did remember was being helped out of her own hearth into her sitting room and gently seated on the sofa. She was pretty sure it had been Draco seeing her safely home, but she wasn’t certain. She could only hope that she hadn’t done or said anything to embarrass herself even further, shuddering to imagine the possibilities. This was brought home even more powerfully when everyone was back in the office following the holidays. Was it her imagination, or was Draco looking at her even more often than usual, a private little smile in his eyes? What in Merlin’s name was that mysterious smile all about? What had they done? She had never found out.

The memory of that evening was followed by the recollection of another, and Hermione cringed once again, squeezing her eyes shut under the streaming water as she remembered what had happened. Ironically, it was exactly a year later, the second New Year’s Eve of her time at ME. A bloke from the marketing department – quite nice and decently attractive – had asked her to a private party following the company one, and as she hadn’t had any other plans, she’d accepted. Reluctantly, granted – and she wasn’t even sure why she felt that way. Silly, illogical reluctance could mean only one thing: fear of the unknown, driven by insecurity. Not one to allow such a weakness to stand in her way, she had plunged ahead and accepted, the ghost of that discomfiting reluctance trailing her throughout the evening. 

They hadn’t stayed long before Colin Mitchell, the bloke in question, had brought her home. That’s when the evening had gone from pleasant to uncomfortable to thoroughly mortifying.

Colin had turned out to be a groper. One minute, they’d been sitting together on the sofa, enjoying a nightcap, and the next, he had been all over her, his whisky breath in her face as his tongue attempted to make rather sloppy contact with her mouth, and she’d found herself struggling to push him off and get away from those roving hands that were relentlessly insinuating themselves inside the low-cut bodice of her frock. 

Suddenly, an arc of bright green fire had erupted in her fireplace, and then, Draco Malfoy’s head had appeared, eerily swathed in the flames, their light glowing like an aurora around his white-blond hair.

“Apologies for the intrusion, Granger,” he had begun. “I assumed you’d be on your own tonight, and I thought –” He'd paused, taking in the scene before him. “Is this chap bothering you? Bugger off, Mitchell. The lady isn't interested.” 

Colin Mitchell had turned rather pale upon seeing, of all people’s heads, that of the boss’ son, and then he’d flushed with anger. However, a strong sense of self-preservation had won out over wounded macho pride, and he got to his feet, brushed himself down, and took his leave with an unceremonious _pop_.

Draco might as well have been swatting a fly; Colin Mitchell had merely been an annoyance, easily dispatched. 

“I’ll come through, then, shall I?” He’d smiled with satisfaction, fully anticipating a welcoming and grateful response.

“NO,” was the immediate, unequivocal, and shrill reply, Hermione’s voice trembling from tears she’d been trying masterfully to swallow down and banish. “NO, YOU SHAN’T. Just what did you imagine you were doing just now, Malfoy? Riding to my rescue like a knight about to slay a big, bad dragon? I was handling the situation perfectly well on my own, I’ll have you know! I had it under control. I did not need YOU to turn up like my personal saviour and take charge.”

Draco had opened his mouth to reply, but she had steamed on, self-righteous fury driving her. 

“And another thing! You assumed I was here on my own tonight, didn’t you! That I wouldn’t have any plans, that I have no life of my own! That no man could possibly have the slightest interest in me as a woman! So you showed up as a... a... _pity date_? What unmitigated presumption and gall! Just because you occupy my every waking moment with your needy little questions and concerns above and beyond all the _genuine_ work I do for ME doesn’t mean you have the right to presume anything about my private life, such as it is. I do not need you to rescue me and I most certainly do NOT need your pity!”

She had laughed bitterly, swallowing back the tears welling up in her throat once again. “Private life. What a joke. You’re absolutely right, Malfoy, if you’ve assumed that I haven’t got much of one. And that’s because all my time, every minute of my day and a good part of most nights, is taken up by YOU.”

She’d moved closer to the fireplace then, standing squarely in front of Draco’s flaming face, hands on her hips. 

“Happy New Year, Malfoy. Now GO AWAY.” 

That had been the last time they’d shared any part of a New Year’s Eve. The following year, Hermione had made the requisite appearance at Malfoy Manor and gone home early, sober and alone. The memories were painful, and Hermione turned her face into the full force of the shower to obliterate them from her thoughts. Malfoy would never change, she realised that now. And really, at this point, enough was enough. She needed to do something she ought to have done long ago. She’d had a proper life once, though life pre-Malfoy seemed oddly hazy and indistinct now, like a dream, and even rather humdrum. Of course, anything would seem humdrum next to the insane whirlwind of her time at ME, and most particularly, the way he’d managed to become such a central part of her life, crowding out nearly everything else. But it was precisely that craziness she wanted to get away from. Life pre-Malfoy had been real, albeit mundane, and it had been _hers_ , and she needed to get it back, however much she might miss him. It was a surprise to realise, thinking about it now, that she actually would. 

Nevertheless, she was resolved. First thing tomorrow morning, she would hand in her two weeks’ notice.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
23 May  
Thursday morning  
  


“What the hell are you on about, Granger? You can’t be serious.”

Uneasily, Hermione shifted in her chair. She’d been dreading this conversation, and it was turning out to be just as awkward and uncomfortable as she’d anticipated. Currently, Draco was looking at her as if she’d just slipped hemlock into his morning coffee.

“Dead serious, I’m afraid. I’ve been here three years, and it’s time I went back to private practice. I miss that work. And I miss having time to myself. I miss having a _life_. I need that, Draco, for the sake of my sanity if for no other reason.”

“Look,” he said hastily, “we can fix that, I swear. Take all the personal time you need. Go on holiday, if you like. Leave tomorrow. Today, even! I can –” 

She held up a hand, smiling wearily and shaking her head. “No, that won’t fix things. Because what’s really wrong in this equation will never change. You are who you are, and this job will never just be something I can leave in the office at the end of the day. Not that I mind having to take work home, per se. Please don’t misunderstand. That isn’t it. I often took work home in the past. It’s that things here, things with you, go way beyond merely taking work home.” She drew a deep, steadying breath. “I simply can’t work for you anymore, Draco. It’s just not healthy for me. _Please_ try to understand.” 

She looked at him beseechingly, but there was no comfort or understanding there; all she could see was the dark, storm-grey of his eyes; the obvious betrayal he felt threatened to swallow her up. 

“I’ll find an amazing replacement, I promise,” she hastened to add. “I’ll get on that right away.” 

The anger (and had that been hurt?) she’d seen in his eyes had now turned to cool, steel-grey indifference. 

“Very well, Hermione. Do please inform me when you are interviewing possible candidates.”

Draco turned his face to the large window behind his desk that offered a panoramic view of riverside London, and Hermione had the distinct impression she’d just been dismissed. She rose to her feet, thinking to make one last, awkward attempt to smooth things over, and then fell silent. He was staring at some distant point across the Thames and she had just become invisible.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
29 May  
Wednesday morning  
  


“There are eight candidates waiting in the outer office, Ms. Granger,” her secretary told her. “Shall I send the first one in now?”

Buried behind a stack of resumes, Hermione looked up briefly and nodded. This was the third day devoted to finding her replacement – no easy task, as she had discovered. All of the twenty candidates with whom she’d already spoken were bright, eager, and ambitious. All of them had outstanding academic credentials, and a number of them had had prior and fairly extensive experience with litigation and research, both of which were critical to success as a solicitor for Malfoy Enterprises.

Moreover, several had shown a subtle willingness to bend the rules when necessary. This wasn’t something Hermione had actively sought to know about any of them, considering that she had refused outright to bend any rules at all during her three years’ tenure as in-house counsel. But several of the candidates had clearly done their homework prior to their interviews, and they knew which way was up. Their little “nudge nudge wink wink” approach was irksome and repugnant, and Hermione was growing to thoroughly detest the entire interview process.

Draco had dropped by unannounced a number of times, casually listening to the conversations and occasionally throwing in a comment or question of his own. The more attractive female candidates seemed to elicit particular attention from him; he made certain to stick around for the whole of their interviews and dazzled every one of them with his brilliant smile and sharp wit. 

Today’s first candidate was female, late twenties, tall and curvy, with luxuriant, coal-black hair pulled back in a chignon. Her stylish tweed business suit flattered her in a way that made Hermione suddenly and painfully aware of her own outfit and the small stain on the front of her silk blouse that she’d only just noticed.

“Hermione Granger! Oh gosh, I cannot believe I’m actually meeting you in the flesh!” the young woman gushed, fervently shaking Hermione’s hand. 

“Uh, yes... thanks... and you are...?” Hermione trailed off, glancing down quickly at the resume that her secretary had just taken from the pile and opened for her perusal.

“Victoria Eldridge,” the young woman chirped. “You know, you’re a legend at school now. I was four years behind you. Ravenclaw,” she added. “I still think you’d have done brilliantly in our house. You were an inspiration to so many of us, you know, and not just academically. The way you lived in the woods during the war, survived capture and torture... went back to school for an eighth year and then pursued legal studies, top of your class... gosh... you’re absolutely amazing!”

“Yes, she certainly is that,” came a wry voice from the doorway. 

Victoria Eldridge turned in her chair and Hermione glanced up to find Draco lounging there, a faint, inscrutable smile on his face. No doubt he’d been standing there in full earshot of the comment about Hermione’s capture and torture during the war. Miss Eldridge, it seemed, had no idea of the faux pas she’d just committed, though Hermione certainly did. She caught Draco’s eye briefly, but his expression remained a pleasant, unreadable mask.

“Well,” she replied, “all that was a long time ago. Fifteen years. The world has moved on and healed since then, thankfully. I’m sure you understand the importance of leaving the past in the past, Miss –” 

“Vicky. Please,” the other woman said, with a wide (rather toothy, Hermione decided) and ingratiating smile. It seemed that she couldn’t decide where to focus her attention, because she kept swivelling her gaze back and forth between Hermione and Draco, who hadn’t left his spot in the doorway. 

“Yes. Right. Vicky. Well, then. Let’s have a look at your resume, shall we?” Hermione murmured, scanning the document. “Quite impressive...”

And it was. Excellent student, hard-working junior associate, with an uncanny knack, it would seem, for always being in the right, most advantageous place at the right time. Hmm.

“I simply can’t tell you how grateful I am for the chance to interview for this position. I’ve always wanted to work for a successful, multi-million-Galleon company like Malfoy Enterprises. It’s such an incredible opportunity, especially for somebody like me.” At this point, Vicky lowered her gaze, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.

“Somebody like you?” Hermione and Draco echoed in one voice.

Vicky raised her eyes and gave them a demure smile. “Well, yes... you see, I’m not from a wizarding family. I’m the first one with magic, and because of that, it’s always been something of a struggle to make my way. Others have the support of their families, but mine have never understood, and consequently, they have turned their backs on me. Everything I’ve achieved, I’ve had to do on my own. But I like to work hard. It’s what I’ve always done.”

‘Well, sweetie, you’re certainly in the right place,’ Hermione thought acidly. ‘Malfoy will see to that.’

Here was a Muggleborn female, bright and accomplished, well educated, eager, with an immaculate career record. This young woman had the whole package. And yet, there was something about her... Hermione frowned. And then she knew.

She opened her mouth to thank the younger woman and send her on her way, but Draco nipped in first.

“You’re hired.”

“Oh my gosh, _really?_ I can’t believe it! Thank you so much, both of you! When shall I start?” Vicky clasped her hands together in excitement.

“No time like the present, I always say,” Draco drawled and gave Hermione a wink. Looping Vicky’s arm through his, he drew her towards the corridor. “Let’s get you set up in a temporary office you can use until Ms. Granger vacates hers, shall we? After that, you should meet my father –” 

“The president and CEO of the company. Of course,” Vicky murmured, looking utterly starstruck. 

“And then, allow me to take you to lunch. I like to get to know all our employees intimately.” Flashing her one of his more dazzling smiles, Draco led Vicky out the door, leaving Hermione stunned. 

And alone, to eat the sandwich she’d brought so that she could work through her lunch hour. There was so much to get in order before her last day, which would be here before she knew it. Suddenly, that sandwich and the prospect of being all noble and self-sacrificing for the greater good of ME left the taste of ashes in her mouth. 

Well, screw that. Hermione slammed her quill down on the desk and stood abruptly. She would go out to lunch today, never mind this working-through-lunch business with a sad, little tuna sandwich. _And_ get something tall and fruity and thoroughly alcoholic with one of those cute little umbrellas, to go with the very expensive steak she planned to order and charge to the company. Maybe she’d even do a bit of shopping on the way back. Right now, as far as she was concerned, Malfoy Enterprises and its too-handsome, too-charming-when-he-wanted-to-be junior name partner could just. Get. Stuffed.


	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  


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The next several days seemed simply to evaporate in a haze of pending cases needing attention or ones ready to be closed out and put to bed, paperwork that needed filing, and correspondence urgently requiring Hermione’s attention. On top of all that, of course, she was busy training Vicky, who proved curiously less interested in the nuts and bolts of being in-house counsel than in Malfoy himself. Often, Hermione would catch her replacement’s eye wandering in the direction of Draco’s office down the hall, and when he did saunter into the legal department, her cheeks would flush prettily and her eyes grow bright. 

_Like an eager puppy. Any minute now, she’ll start drooling._ Lips pursed in annoyance, Hermione expelled an irritated breath through her nose. _Oh, brother._

“Yes, Malfoy? Can I help you?” she asked pointedly on one such occasion. “Because, you know, we’re awfully busy here at the moment. Work to do. Actual work.”

Draco seated himself on the edge of Hermione’s desk and grinned disarmingly. “Oh, well, then, don’t let me keep you, Granger. I just need to borrow our new in-house counsel for a moment – that is, if you don’t mind, Vicky. Obligatory paperwork for new hires.” 

Apparently, obligatory paperwork sounded positively thrilling, because Vicky shot up from her chair with a huge smile.

“I’m all yours, Mr. Malfoy,” she purred. “Lead on.”

Off they went out of the office, leaving Hermione on her own to tackle the pile of paperwork that still sat on her desk.

“I’m all yours, Mr. Malfoy. Lead on,” she mimicked sourly, rolling her eyes. “Ugh!”

“Did you say something, Ms. Granger?” her secretary called from the outer office. “I thought –”

“No, no, it’s nothing,” Hermione replied hastily. “Everything’s fine.”

But of course, it wasn’t. There were more incidents like that, other times when Vicky Eldridge was practically falling all over herself to shine in Malfoy’s eyes. Now, when he came into Legal, if both women were there working together, Hermione might as well have been a piece of furniture for all the notice he took of her. His attention seemed taken up almost exclusively by Vicky now. She saw to that.

And Vicky was obviously thriving in this rarefied atmosphere. In fact, Hermione observed with some surprise and consternation, it seemed the more favour Vicky received from Draco, the bolder and more aggressive she became in her behaviour around Hermione. Apparently, not only did she covet Draco’s attention, she wanted to push Hermione out of the picture altogether, proving herself the superior lawyer as well as the more alluring woman.

This was the theory Hermione was quietly cultivating, as day after day of Vicky’s increasingly competitive behaviour passed. 

“It’s not enough for her that I’m already leaving,” Hermione confided to Ginny one evening as the two women were having coffee at a café not far from ME headquarters. “She has to prove that she’s better than I am in every possible way _whilst I’m still there_ , rubbing my face in it every chance she gets.”

“Arse kisser,” Ginny muttered. “Blech! How do you stomach her?”

“With great difficulty,” Hermione snorted. “She’s really a piece of work, that one. Swanning about in very tight skirts, batting her eyes at Malfoy, trailing after him for the flimsiest of reasons, any excuse to get close to him, and of course, when he’s out of earshot, she’s rude and dismissive to me, doing what I ask – but grudgingly, you know? And what really gets me is that Malfoy seems to have bought into all of it, hook, line and sinker! How can he not see what she is? Is he so shallow that all it takes is a pretty face and a lot of really brazen sucking up to get his approval?”

“Sounds like she’s after more than just his approval, Hermione,” Ginny remarked tartly. “It also sounds like you’re jealous.”

Hermione stared at her friend, nonplussed, for a moment, and then she began to laugh. “Jealous? Me? Are you daft? No way!”

Ginny was unconvinced. “Really? It looks to me like this is bothering you a lot more than you’ve even admitted. And I’m pretty sure I know why. Don’t go getting all defensive,” she warned, holding up a hand as Hermione opened her mouth to reply. “Just _think_ about what I said, yeah?”

Slumping back in her seat, Hermione nodded. Suddenly, she had nothing left to say. Just three more days and it would be the sixth of June, her last full day at Malfoy Enterprises. The evening before, there was to be a fundraising gala to benefit one of the charities she had pushed ME to support; as she was being honoured for her work forging a link between the two, attendance was compulsory, much as she would have preferred to skip it altogether, pack up her desk, and just go home. 

Only three more days. She could manage that, surely.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
5 June  
Wednesday afternoon  
  


Her desk was more than half empty now, the contents of several drawers packed neatly into boxes. Hangers in the wardrobe hung naked and forlorn on the rod. Knick knacks – a beautiful cut-glass paperweight, a funny little snow globe a friend had brought back from a holiday in Switzerland, a small, beautifully carved otter she’d received from Harry years earlier for her birthday, framed photos of friends and family – had been taken from the generous window ledge behind her desk and wrapped carefully in the pages of the most recent Daily Prophet. Several potted plants were still there, enjoying the extraordinary sunlight the exposure afforded. She’d take them home tomorrow, along with the remaining straggler items still to be packed up. The spot on the wall where a pair of framed art prints had hung was conspicuously bare, the prints themselves leaning against the wall below and looking decidedly dejected. 

“That wants cleaning,” Hermione found herself thinking absently, noting the faint outline on the wall where the pictures had been. 

All work projects were finished or nearly so. At the very least, the business of ME’s in-house counsel was now well in hand, or so Victoria Eldridge had officiously (and rather smugly) assured Draco. Not surprisingly, she had made the pronouncement well within Hermione’s earshot. 

“Excellent,” he’d replied, flashing a quick smile and then a surreptitious glance in Hermione’s direction. “Glad to hear it. My father will be as well.”

The look Vicky had shot at Hermione then was hardly surreptitious. It had been positively triumphant, and her gloating had stung. Turning away, Hermione had returned to her office and shut the door. Feeling like a stranger in her own space, she had sat down at the desk, gazing out the window at the view she’d come to know so intimately over the past three years. Soon, that view and that desk would belong to someone else. 

Until tomorrow at six pm, though, it still belonged to her. Just let that Eldridge bitch try to lay claim to it before then. Such thoughts wrapped themselves around Hermione like a shroud, and she wondered, suddenly, why she was feeling so melancholy. This was a move and a decision she’d wanted to make for some time. It was a good decision for her; surely, she'd find life far less taxing and chaotic without Malfoy constantly ringing or Flooing her and roping her into all sorts of activities that really weren’t her business and certainly weren't a part of the job description. She wasn’t his mother, nor was she his girlfriend, yet somehow, she had become a curious amalgam of the two. Life would surely be calmer and more orderly; whatever work she chose to do after hours would be just that: her own choice. Undoubtedly, once she returned to private practice, she would find herself very happy with the change and not look back.

As she was ruminating and gazing morosely out over the rooftops of London, Draco and Vicky were returning to the legal department, having concluded some work that had called them away.

“Going to the fundraiser tonight?” he asked conversationally. Virtually everyone in senior management would be there.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought...” Vicky fluttered her eyelashes in Draco’s direction and smiled sweetly. “I’d love to, of course. Where's it being held? And is it formal?”

“Black tie, yes,” Draco told her. They had paused at the entrance to the legal department; he would be on his way to a board meeting momentarily. “The Palladia Hotel in Mayfair. Eight o’clock. ” He gave his watch a quick glance. “Sorry, must go. I’m expected upstairs.”

And with that, he strode off in the direction of the lift, leaving Vicky gazing after him with stars in her eyes. As soon as the lift doors slid shut, however, she was all business. Walking briskly into the legal department, she made straight for Hermione’s office. 

“Come in!” came the muffled voice from inside, and Vicky opened the door. 

Hermione glanced up to find her replacement standing in front of her desk. “Oh good, I’m glad you’re back. There are some final bits and bobs we need to go over on the Reniston contract. Have a seat. We can knock this out pretty quickly, working together.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got to leave now and go shopping.” Vicky giggled girlishly. “Draco’s just asked me to go to the fundraiser with him tonight, and I’ve absolutely _nothing_ suitable to wear! It’s formal, you know. Must run! I’ll see you later!”

Before Hermione could close her mouth, which had dropped open in surprise, Vicky was gone. And once again, she was left holding the proverbial bag. Her own plan to leave a bit early would have to be scotched, and she could feel herself growing seriously annoyed. As one of the guests of honour, she would be photographed quite a bit, and she’d hoped to have a leisurely couple of hours to bathe and dress and make sure she looked her absolute best. Now things would no doubt be rushed and stressful. The serenity she’d hoped for had just evaporated.

The phone on her desk – a concession to Muggle ingenuity that Draco had persuaded his father to adopt – jangled suddenly. Wearily, Hermione put down her quill and picked up the receiver.

“Be round to collect you at half seven, yeah?” came Draco’s voice on the other end.

“No, thanks,” Hermione told him stiffly. “I am quite capable of getting there on my own.”

No way in the world would she tag along with Draco and his date as a third wheel. That was most definitely _not_ on.

Draco sounded surprised and disappointed. “Well... all right, then... Reckon I’ll see you there.”

“Right,” she replied briskly. “Goodbye.” And she replaced the receiver with rather more force than she’d intended.

Bloody hell. He’d invited Vicky to accompany him as his _date_ , had he? When had he ever asked _her_ out on a date? True, they’d spent countless evenings together over the past three years, but none of them had qualified as actual, official dates. This girl had been in ME’s employ a total of how long so far? Eight days? And already, he was asking her out on a real date?

Grimly, Hermione bent her head over the Reniston contract, but the words slid past her eyes like so many meaningless scribbles. Finally, she threw the quill down and grabbed her jacket. Time to get the hell out of this office and go home, where she could soak in a relaxing bath and hopefully drown the mental image of Victoria Eldridge that kept surfacing behind her tired eyes.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Entering the boardroom, Draco surveyed the scene with a somewhat jaundiced eye. The entire board had been assembled for a last-minute meeting narrowly sandwiched between the regular workday and the fancy-dress gala that evening, and Draco had some fairly serious suspicions as to the reason. This would be his father’s doing, he had no doubt. Lucius had an agenda, and when he sank his teeth into an idea, it was close to impossible to make him relinquish it.

What it was this time, Draco couldn’t be certain. But he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.

“Please be seated, gentlemen,” Lucius said presently, looking up and down the long table with an amiable eye. “I will keep this meeting short and sweet. I know everyone is eager for tonight’s fundraiser, which will be quite a coup for Malfoy Enterprises. It is all to the good for us to be seen supporting worthwhile causes such as tonight’s recipient, Llair ddraig. Ensuring the survival of magical wildlife such as the Common Welsh Green dragon by protecting its native habitat is vitally important to the magical heritage we share and hope to pass on to future generations.” 

So far, so good. Draco raised an eyebrow, sat back, and waited.

“However,” Lucius continued, his gaze sweeping over the board members seated around the table, “there is an experiment my son persuaded me to try that unfortunately has not borne fruit as we had all hoped it would: the development and marketing of an artificial substitute for the fur of the dire wolf. While it has done reasonably well, it has not had the decisive impact on consumers’ spending habits that we had expected.”

Draco stiffened in his chair; suddenly, he knew what was coming.

“As a result,” Lucius went on, “I propose that we put to a vote a resolution that we resume our original plan to harvest dire wolf fur and sell garments made with the actual product and not an imitation. If the resolution is adopted, it will mean that the need to ease restrictions on the protections currently in place for the dire wolf is once again a priority. It would be essential, in fact.”

“Father, a word, please.” Draco was on his feet now.

“I’m listening,” the elder Malfoy replied, as he prepared to send around ballots for the vote.

“In private.”

“I’m afraid there is no time for that, Draco. Whatever you have to say can be said right here.” Leaning forward slightly, Lucius handed the paper ballots to the board member to his immediate right and resumed his seat.

“Very well. We gave our word to Hermione – Ms. Granger, that is – that we wouldn’t do this. Krumholtz was assured of our commitment to that decision as well. It’s only been three years. Surely, more time than that is needed to decide whether or not a marketing campaign for a given product is a success. Anyway, if I'm not mistaken, that promise constitutes a verbal contract, and such a thing is binding. There was also the written statement you gave the Minister, assuring him of our intentions regarding the dire wolf. Surely, that document must function as a contract as well. Apart from everything else, doing this makes a mockery of the very fundraising event we are holding tonight! How will that make us look, once the press gets hold of it?”

To bring up ethical concerns would have been both pointless and utterly ludicrous. He stopped himself there and waited, hoping he'd fashioned arguments that would hit home. 

Instead, Lucius regarded his son with a carefully contained expression that Draco knew masked serious displeasure. It had been risky to raise the issue of their promise so publicly. His father was not a man any sane person wanted to alienate or cross in any way. After a moment's silence, Lucius spoke, his tone dripping with patient condescension.

"Draco. Whilst I appreciate your intentions with regard to a position we adopted three years ago, surely you understand that our primary concern here is profit. We have shareholders to report to. They are looking only at that bottom line. If our profits fail to meet expectations, then a change in strategy must be made. What might work in one set of circumstances might fail in another. We have now reached that point with regard to our high-end fashion merchandise. Much more profit is there to be made; it is our _obligation_ to tap into that, whatever change of strategy might be required. As for the legal ramifications of any 'contracts' our previous agreement might constitute, verbal or otherwise, well..." Here, Lucius smiled complacently. "That's what we have a solicitor for, isn't it. To get us out of such entanglements." 

And that was that. It was clear that Lucius Malfoy had addressed the issue to the extent he intended. Nothing more would be said, and Draco would have to be content with what he'd been told. Something else was suddenly clear as well, and it had everything to do with timing. First, in the long run, his father had never had the slightest intention of honouring the agreement not to trap and kill dire wolves for their furs. And second, he'd only offered his agreement as an inducement for Hermione Granger to come on board as in-house counsel. ME had needed what only someone like Granger could provide, and now that its reputation had been cleansed of the tarnishing of Wentworth's embezzlement, it could revert to business as usual. Hermione was now leaving and another solicitor was taking her place, one who did not necessarily have the scruples of her predecessor. One who would not have any problem extricating ME from the minor complications of such so-called contracts. And of course Lucius knew this. He'd taken the time to chat with Draco's new hire, and apparently, he'd sized her up pretty accurately.

Looking slightly desperate, Draco sat down again. Hoping against hope, he surveyed the board members ranged around the table. However, their facial expressions revealed nothing. The vote would be taken and the policy of Malfoy Enterprises regarding the dire wolf would be established once and for all. It would be a closed vote, the results tallied in private and made public at a later point. And he didn't feel terribly optimistic that the vote would go his way.

But just maybe, all this could be kept quiet for tonight. Maybe Hermione didn’t have to know just yet that her beloved dire wolves might very well end up under the gun once again, their protections eliminated and their habitat a killing ground. If he could just keep her from finding out tonight… maybe there was something else he could do to stop this. He just needed a little time.

A few minutes later, the voting concluded and the ballots were collected for tallying. The board members were very practiced at keeping a poker face, and nobody was talking. At least, not yet. Draco wished that somehow, he could at least get a sense of how the voting had gone. But short of coming out and asking each one directly, he really didn’t know how he could find out. 

Before long, Draco found himself in the lift, shoulder to shoulder with many of the board members. The ride down to the ground floor seemed endless and claustrophobic, and he happily breathed in the cool air of the late-spring evening when he finally arrived outside. Today was his thirty-third birthday. He was hoping for one present in particular, and if he were really lucky, maybe even two.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
The Palladia, a beautiful old hotel tucked neatly into the centre of fashionable Mayfair, glittered with the opulence and grandeur of its long and very rich history. Serving both Muggles and magical folk alike, the staff managed to keep the latter well hidden by a lot of judicious and skillful juggling. “Smoke and mirrors” was the elusive phrase the canny manager often used, accompanied by a gracious smile, when asked how this had been so successfully accomplished over the years. However it was done, its wizarding clientele returned year after year and the lustre of the hotel’s reputation deepened and became even more luminous.

Tonight, the hotel would be hosting a glamorous gala sponsored by Malfoy Enterprises, its purpose to raise money for a most worthy cause: Llair ddraig, or “Dragon’s Lair,” an organization devoted to the preservation of the verdant woodlands that were the natural habitat of the Common Welsh Green dragon. Encroachment by developers had already robbed the Common Welsh Green of too much of its breeding and hunting grounds, and if the species were to survive, this development had to stop. A lot of money was needed to fund the legal battles that Llair ddraig needed to pursue, in order to take on the developers, plus the lumber industry and farmers who wanted that very rich land for cultivation. 

Hermione Granger had championed this cause, amongst many, for quite some time. It had been immensely satisfying, having Malfoy funds at her disposal to lend weight to the fight these past three years. Now, as she emerged from the large, marble fireplace in the reception room set aside especially for arriving guests, she took in a deep breath. Tonight’s fundraiser would be very gratifying on two counts, regardless of what else was going on in her life at the moment. A lot of much-needed money would swell the coffers of Llair ddraig in the next several hours. The recognition she would formally receive from its president would be the icing on the cake. This was a victory, and nothing could take that away from her. Nothing could spoil it.

Wrapping a filmy lace shawl around her bare shoulders, Hermione began to circulate, glancing about for familiar faces. Her outfit, a sophisticated and sexy cocktail dress of jade-green silk, form fitting and strapless, was one she felt particularly confident in. She’d elected to wear her hair up, the sleek French twist accentuating her slender neck and shoulders. Assistance had come from Ginny and Luna, who had volunteered to help their friend get kitted out and gorgeous in the short time she'd had to make herself ready. 

The reception room was crowded, a good sign. Hermione made her way from there into an opulent lounge set aside for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Dinner would be in the spacious and elegant dining room, visible just beyond through the open double doors. Following the meal, there would be a silent auction, which she fervently hoped would raise pots of money for Llair ddraig. 

It was particularly heartening to know that her efforts had not only not been in vain, but had actually made a tangible difference. Public awareness had been successfully raised through a sustained PR campaign in all branches of the media, for starters. Legal actions targeting certain factions for their incursions into the regions in which the Common Green Welsh dragon lived and bred had also begun to bear fruit. Hermione had worked closely with lawyers from Llair ddraig, and together, they’d had some significant victories in court.

Now, her work with the group was being honoured, and by extension, her soon-to-be ex-employer would be honoured as well. Her face had been in the Daily Prophet often enough over the years that now, many people recognised her and said hello as she moved through the crowds towards the bar.

“Champagne, please,” she murmured to the bartender, who nodded and uncorked a bottle he fetched from a fridge beneath the bar.

The champagne was delightfully crisp, slightly sweet, and perfectly chilled. The bubbles tickled Hermione’s nose as she sipped, and she sighed happily, feeling a very welcome and needed wave of relaxation overtake her.

“The Brut Reserve is especially fine, don’t you think? Delicate hints of pear and apple and a satisfying finish. It’s one of my favourites.”

Hermione looked up to find Draco standing before her, a glass of the same champagne in hand and an appreciative smile on his face; despite his words, though, she could tell that his more profound appreciation was not for the wine at all.

A warm blush pinked her cheeks, and in spite of herself, she glanced away with a tiny, pleased smile of her own.

He moved closer, and she caught a whiff of that delightfully clean, very masculine scent of his. It was just as she remembered it and just as appealing. He looked awfully good, too, she couldn’t help noticing, in his stylish dress robes and beautifully cut dark suit.

“Hello,” he said quietly.

‘Hello yourself,” she answered. His eyes were still on her, drinking her in, and suddenly, she found herself feeling strangely shy and tingly and slightly breathless, as if the champagne bubbles were bursting all over her at once, inside and out.

“How are you, Granger? We haven’t had much chance to talk lately, have we?”

This was true. Between wrapping up casework, training Vicky, and packing up her office, she’d felt rather like a chicken minus a head the last week or so. And of course, Draco had been busy as well. And then she remembered. At least in part, one of the things he’d been so busy with had been her successor.

“Where’s your date?” Hermione blurted out, her mood souring abruptly.

For his part, Draco looked confused. He frowned. “My date? What are –” he began.

Just then, the lady herself walked up behind Draco, slipping her arm possessively through his. 

“Hermione, how lovely to see you! You look simply gorgeous! I just adore your dress! And congrats, of course, on being honoured. What a wonderful way to end your time at Malfoy Enterprises.”

Curbing a strong desire to slap that obsequious smile off the stupid cow’s face, Hermione forced herself to be pleasant. “Yes, thanks, it really is. Your dress is very nice too. Will you both excuse me, please?”

She turned to make her escape but Vicky’s next comment to Draco stopped her cold.

“Have you had the results of the vote yet? I think your father did exactly the right thing, you know. Real fur is something that anyone with good taste wants to own. Everybody knows that. I’m just dying to have my own dire wolf fur. I’ll get an employee discount, though, won’t I?” Tinkle of laughter.

“Excuse me? _What_ did she say?” 

Vicky’s eyes grew wide in the heat of Hermione's glare. “Me? All I said was –”

Hermione's voice was dangerously low and controlled. “I’m talking to _him._ Explain, Malfoy. What did she mean? What vote?”

Draco shifted uneasily and averted his gaze for a long moment. Finally, he looked squarely at Hermione.

“I just found out about all this today. There was a board meeting this afternoon, and my father called for a vote to pursue our former policy regarding the dire wolves. He feels our profit margin for the fake stuff hasn’t proven sufficiently strong, and he wants to resume the push for deregulation of protections in the New Forest.”

Shock and anger pulsed through her in waves. “ _And_? What was the result of the vote? Is ME going to renege on its commitment not to go after the dire wolves?”

“Quite possibly.” The words were like sawdust in Draco’s mouth, but he had to tell her the truth, or as much of it as he could bring himself to say.

Hermione grabbed his arm then, yanking him forward a step. “Please excuse us, Vicky,” she gritted. “You can have him back in a minute.”

Tugging at him again, she marched them both to a more private corner.

“You _promised_ , Malfoy! You gave your word! Your father gave his!” she hissed. “How could you do this?”

“I did everything I could to stop it! Honestly!” 

“Right. Why didn’t you at least give me a heads-up so I could do something about it? Oh, wait. I know why. Because you didn’t want anything to get in the way. It’s all about money, isn’t it. It always is. As if you Malfoys aren’t already richer than the Queen. 

“You lot just have to stick your fingers into every pie, don’t you, no matter if it means the extinction of a beautiful, magical creature so shy and elusive that most people will never even see one. Except, of course, in bits and pieces on jackets or hats or the trimming on cloaks. Only thing is, the wolf has to be dead first. Oh, but that’s okay. No problem there. Bend the laws or just chuck them altogether and make new ones. The dire wolves will go extinct eventually anyway; why not a bit sooner than later if there’s a profit to be made, eh?” Hermione’s voice cracked with grief and fury, and she swallowed down the tears threatening to choke her. “Why not indeed! You know, I'd really begun to believe you'd changed, more fool me. Go back to your little girlfriend, Malfoy,” she seethed. “She’s waiting for you!”

The remainder of the evening passed like a dream, the sort from which one wants desperately to wake up. Time dragged painfully, each course of the sumptuous dinner seeming to take forever to be concluded and the dishes cleared before the next course was served. The silent auction proceeded in even more agonizing slow motion. Worst of all, though, was Llair ddraig’s awarding of the plaque to Hermione. There were endless speeches, a thousand candles flickering in her face along with applause, too much rich food and drink, and words that were like ashes in her mouth as woodenly, she thanked everyone. In the sea of faces beaming their approval and appreciation as she spoke, there was only one she really saw clearly. He stared at her from the crowd, his face stiff and remote. 

Finally, the evening drew to a close. As the honouree, Hermione had to stay to the bitter end so that people could shake her hand and have a word or two. Networking was probably at least as important as the actual work itself, and even though she really had very little patience for the more political side of things, she knew it was essential in order to get people to part with their money.

Two people who were conspicuously absent long before most others eventually left were Draco and Vicky. Hermione hadn’t actually seen them leave, but she couldn’t help scanning the room now and then, and they were nowhere to be seen. Upon casual inquiry, she discovered that the two of them had left separately.

By now, he’d be home. Good. She had a few more choice words for him, and there was no time like the present, when her head of angry steam was still up. He had to know how she felt, and she needed to get all of it out of her system. Resolved, she set off for Draco’s penthouse flat, Apparating directly into the spacious private foyer adjacent to the lift. 

“Malfoy?” she called out, making her way into the huge, elegantly furnished sitting room. “Are you here? We have to talk.”

Nobody answered, so she continued through the flat, calling as she went. The enormous kitchen was empty, as were two guest bedrooms and a ridiculously large loo complete with sunken tub and jacuzzi. And that, one presumed, was for guests.

The master bedroom was, she surmised, a bit further down the hall; unable to contain her curiosity, she ventured down there and had a peek. It didn’t disappoint.

As with every other room in the flat, the master bedroom was cavernous, yet it radiated an intimacy and warmth that belied its considerable size. Furnished in tastefully simple, neutral tones of beige and cream, it was spare and yet restful, a calming space, a real sanctuary. The king-sized bed looked incredibly inviting. Swallowing, Hermione turned away, resolutely determined to push such pointless thoughts out of her head and focus on the reason she was there.

Except... Malfoy didn’t seem to be. Perhaps he hadn’t come directly home after all. Shrugging, she began retracing her steps in the direction of the foyer when she heard it.

The sound of laughter. It seemed to be coming from the one place she had somehow neglected to check: the game room all the way at the far end of the flat. It was truly Draco’s “man cave,” as the Americans would call it, complete with billiards table, well-stocked bar, giant flat-screen TV (another bit of Muggle brilliance that Draco found himself mesmerised by), comfy sofas, and a wrap-around deck with a spectacular view of London that was worth the price of the penthouse all by itself.

The sight that greeted her was not something she could have predicted if she’d been paid to do it. Two champagne bottles and a pair of slender flutes stood on the bar, one bottle empty and the other nearly so. And there was Vicky, perched on top of the billiards table, missing most of her clothing. She wasn’t shy, however, even with Hermione turning up unexpectedly. Lounging back, cat-like, she thrust out her chest so that her breasts were perfectly accentuated in the lacy push-up and her flat stomach was shown to advantage in the matching, barely-there knickers. A chess board in play was at her feet.

Malfoy was in an interesting state of undress as well, wearing only a necktie, a pair of boxers, black socks, and an unmistakably chagrined expression. There was actually embarrassed colour in his cheeks, something Hermione had never seen before.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he began, trailing off into an awkward silence.

“What exactly is it, then?” Hermione asked bluntly, looking from one to the other

“Wizard’s chess. The strip variety. We used to play this at school after hours.” Vicky gazed at Hermione, eyes hooded, and smiled provocatively. “Care to join us? You can take my next turn. Much more fun with three.” 

No, Hermione didn’t care to do anything of the sort, thanks very much. Oh _gods_ , what the hell had she been thinking, walking into Malfoy’s place unannounced? She’d certainly done it often enough in the past, to the point where she hadn’t thought anything of it. What was going on now was all too obvious. The fact that this had never happened before was somewhat astounding, now that she really considered it. 

But that was neither here nor there. Right now, she was more embarrassed and humiliated than she’d ever been in her entire life. All she wanted – desperately – was to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“No thanks. I’ll just... I’ll see myself out.”

“Granger, wait.” Hurriedly pulling on his discarded suit jacket, Draco approached Hermione. “Was there something you wanted to see me about? I mean, you did come here for a reason. What –”

She was already halfway into the lift. “No, no, it can wait. Talk tomorrow. Must run.”

_Oh gods oh gods oh gods._

Chin trembling and her back ramrod straight, she left the building and kept walking. Just now, she needed the fresh air and the time it would take to get home on foot, just to clear her head. The sickened feeling in her heart was another matter. 

_Happy birthday, Draco. Hope you got what you wanted._


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
  


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6 June  
Thursday afternoon

 

It was a relatively small matter to pack up the remainder of her things. All the boxes but one were stacked neatly against the wall, sealed and ready to go. The room looked truly skeletal now, stripped of all that had made it a warm, personal space. 

Leaving had never been easy for Hermione. All her life, she’d craved stability and had put down roots with the hope that they wouldn’t need to be pulled up eventually. Too often, though, they had been, particularly in the final year of the war, forcing her to make her world smaller and smaller, portable and easily packed away. Just in case. In the intervening years, her heart had become like one of those boxes, she reflected. She’d got better at it over the years, but always hoped that someday, she could stay with one relationship, one home that she could call her own and add to over time, and a career she could really build from the ground up.

Sitting at her desk, surveying the emptiness, she picked up her trusty quill, the one she’d drafted so many documents with in the last three years. Over time, this quill had become special to her, a symbol of everything she had achieved. 

For one thing, it had helped fuel some of Hermione’s most creative, problem-solving efforts. She’d used it to draft letters, queries, motions, contracts, deposition questions, shopping lists, reminder notes, to-do lists, everything that made up the fabric of her daily life, in and out of the office. And of course, that included everything she had been called upon to do for and with Draco. She smiled ruefully now, remembering how often she’d scribbled a note to herself on the latest of his urgent problems needing her input. 

With a sigh, Hermione opened the drawer to deposit the quill, and then she stopped.

Wait. She and that quill had been through a lot together the last three years. After all that, it really belonged to her by rights. She’d earned it.

So, without a second thought, she stuck the quill in the last open box, along with some blank parchment with her letterhead on it, just for nostalgia’s sake. 

After that, the remainder of the afternoon revolved around the arrival in her office of a fairly steady stream of little farewell gifts, cards, and finally, at tea time, a box from the new patisserie in Diagon Alley. Inside, there was a generous wedge of her favourite sweet, a lemon tart with a delicate dusting of castor sugar. And instead of tea, there was cappuccino, a quirky preference of hers that everyone in Legal had become familiar with eventually. A white porcelain mug hopped out of the box and set itself down on her desk, followed by a container of creamy, cinnamon-flecked cappuccino, which then tipped its contents neatly into the mug without spilling a drop. 

Hermione couldn’t help a small, bittersweet smile as she fished the attached card from the box and opened it. It read, “Who else will bring you decaf cappuccino and slices of lemon tart every day?”

The sender’s identity was obvious. And his timing was excellent; when she looked up from the card, Draco was lounging in the doorway of her office, a faint smile playing about his lips. But the hurt and sense of betrayal she felt from the night before were like a stone wall and she couldn’t get past it.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” she said woodenly. “This is lovely.”

The last vestiges of his smile vanished, and rather mechanically, Draco approached and held out his hand. “Well, goodbye then, Granger. Best of luck with whatever’s next.” The words were careful and correct and utterly lacking in emotion.

As he turned to go, the office door swung open. It was Vicky. She entered as he left, looking around with obvious relish. The office, a lovely and light-filled corner space, would soon be hers. She’d had it all decorated in her head from day one.

“Well, I just stopped by to wish you luck, Hermione,” she purred, as Draco moved past her into the outer office. “I’m sure you’ll be absolutely swamped with work in your practice before long. I expect we’ll find ourselves on opposite sides of the aisle in court at some point.” She laughed lightly, and the sound grated. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

_Hah. As if I have anything to worry about from **you** , you stupid bint._

By this time, Vicky was standing directly in front of the desk, where the final box stood, still open. She laid her hands lightly on its edge and glanced down. 

“Oh!” She gave another trill of laughter that had a lacing of disapproval underlying it. “I see you’ve... oh well, it doesn’t matter, really, does it. What’s one little quill, anyway?” 

Hermione’s head came up sharply. “My quill? Why? Is there a problem?”

“Oh, well, it’s nothing, really. Just that it’s ME property, that’s all. But I suppose it’s nothing so very valuable that they’d mind if you took it.”

 _Took it._ As if she were a thief. Hermione stiffened, but remained silent.

“Anyway,” Vicky rattled blithely on, “it’s really none of my business if you take office supplies home. As for me, I have a strict policy of separating work and everything associated with it from my personal life.”

“Oh, really.” _Hypocritical slag._ Hermione rose slowly to her feet. “Do you? And I suppose that’s why last night, you were draped over your boss’ billiards table in not much more than your knickers.”

It was like a curtain dropping and rising again, looking at Vicky’s face. Her expression changed that quickly. Before, she had simply looked irritatingly superior. Now she looked positively murderous. Her hand moved like lightning. Reaching into Hermione’s open box, she grabbed the quill in her fist and waved it high in the air.

“Give that back!” Hermione hissed, reaching to grab it back and failing, as Vicky was a good several inches taller. “It’s mine!”

“Sorry, you can’t have it! It’s the property of this office, so it’s mine now!” One could almost hear a “so there!” in Vicky's triumphant tone.

Their raised voices had penetrated the walls, and soon, there was a knock on the office door, and then a second, more insistent knock. A moment later, the door opened, and Draco strode in, Hermione’s secretary and a few others hovering behind him. Their expressions were a mix of alarm and morbid fascination. This was a train wreck happening right before their eyes, and they were glued to the proceedings. It would be fodder for the gossip mill for weeks to come.

Reaching up, Draco plucked the quill out of Vicky’s hand and separated the two women, holding them well away from each other.

“Out!” he told Vicky firmly.

“Why? This is my office now!”

“Not yet it isn’t!” Hermione muttered furiously.

Draco looked grim as forcibly, he manoeuvred Vicky to the door. “Just go. Now.”

Still protesting, the younger woman left, glowering, and everyone else backed off. The door shut behind them, leaving Draco and Hermione alone. 

“What the hell was that?” he demanded. 

“Sorry, Malfoy, but the real question is, does ME plan to trap and kill dire wolves for their fur?”

“Is that all you think about? I believe there’s a hell of a lot more going on here than simply whether we plan to market dire wolf fur. You’re evading another issue completely!”

Hermione seemed not to have heard. “ _Does_ ME plan to trap and kill dire wolves for their fur?” she repeated, glaring at him.

“Bloody hell, Granger!” Draco was becoming seriously exasperated. “Last night, you found Vicky and me in unusual circumstances. Didn’t that bother you at _all?_ Did you really feel _nothing?_ Have you no feelings?”

This she’d definitely heard. The colour drained from her face now. Nevertheless, she held on, speaking slowly and deliberately and enunciating each syllable. “Does ME plan to trap and kill dire wolves for their fur?” 

Draco stared at her for a long moment, incredulous, then turned away, raking a hand agitatedly through his hair. He seemed stunned.

“Feelings?” she echoed. “Oh yes, I have feelings. I feel for innocent creatures being murdered so that vapid, selfish idiots with money to burn can parade about wearing their fur! I can’t abide injustices that go uncorrected. I feel deeply for those who can’t help themselves. The difference is, I translate _my_ feelings into action, so they’re not wasted. People disappoint. Causes don’t, if one works hard enough. I didn’t take this job so I could sleep my way to the top, like someone I could mention. Think back, Malfoy. You might recall that I took this job for a cause!”

There was no holding back now. “Sod it all, you ARE a cause!” he yelled. “You’re unbelievable!”

“Draco, you _promised_ me you’d protect the dire wolves!” Hermione shouted, stubbornly undeterred. “That’s the bottom line!”

“Yes, I promised. I know. I promised. And I meant it. I didn’t realise until just yesterday that my father had had something else in mind all along. In the end, there was no way I could stop that vote, but I did try. Not that you believed me or gave me the benefit of the doubt when I told you that earlier.

“I see now why none of the blokes you’ve ever been involved with stuck around! Nobody wants to be with someone who’s so relentlessly perfect, such a bloody paragon of virtue!” Draco walked swiftly to the door and then turned back. “Let me tell you something. The rest of us are not perfect. We can be weak. Sometimes, we’re selfish. Sometimes, we make mistakes. In other words, we’re _human_. I’m not so sure about you.”

And with that, he left, closing the door with a bang.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Two months later

 

The morning edition of The Daily Prophet sat on Hermione’s desk, folded and unread, for a good part of the day. It wasn’t until close to teatime, when the lady from the caff came around with the trolley, that Hermione finally put work aside to relax with the paper as she had her tea. Tea now and not cappuccino, because she just hadn’t the heart to put an order in at the little patisserie she liked so much. She’d done it once, ordering her favourite decaf mug and a slice of lemon tart, but when it had arrived, looking as delectable as ever, she found she’d lost her appetite.

Tea and digestive biscuits. Something plain and nutritious and eminently sensible.

She had thrown herself into rebuilding her private practice in the last couple of months, to the point where sometimes, her secretary had to remind her even to take a tea break at all. The clients were gradually returning, along with new ones, and that was good. But it was slow going, and often, the relative quiet got on her nerves. Nothing at all like the constant, busy hum of life at Malfoy Enterprises legal. 

Shaking open the newspaper as she raised the steaming cup to her lips, Hermione stopped dead and stared, eyes boggling, at the headline on the front page. It was like a neon sign flashing.

MALFOY ENTERPRISES PRES FORCED TO ACCEPT BOARDROOM MUTINY

She brought the page closer, still staring in utter disbelief.

 

In a surprise move, the executive board of directors at  
Malfoy Enterprises has decided to reconsider  
its earlier decision to once again support  
deregulation of protections for the dire wolf in the New  
Forest, thus opening the way for hunting, trapping, and  
killing the creatures for their fur. It has come to light that  
a new vote was called five days ago, as permitted by the by-laws,  
and this time, the board voted to reverse  
their previous decision by a margin of 16 to 10.

The mutiny was orchestrated by several board  
members who have asked to remain anonymous.  
Their efforts to lobby fellow board members resulted  
in sufficient changes of allegiance to overturn the results of  
the first vote. As a result, Malfoy Enterprises will  
continue to manufacture the synthetic dire wolf fur for  
its fashion line, and no move will be initiated to push for  
deregulation of existing protections for this species, whose  
full recovery in the New Forest is still not absolutely  
assured.

President and CEO Lucius Malfoy could not be reached  
for comment.

 

Hermione sank back into her chair, her head spinning. _Gods._ This was incredible. Could it really be true? Lucius Malfoy had been double-crossed by his own executive board! Suddenly, it all became painfully clear. There was really only one person who could have been behind this palace coup. He had tried to tell her that he hadn’t supported the initial vote, had in fact attempted to stop it altogether, and she hadn’t believed him. She’d thought him weak, that he’d capitulated to his father’s wishes. She’d assumed that invariably, he’d put Malfoy interests above what was right. 

And now, somehow, he’d managed to change enough minds that a second vote had been forced. Amazingly, the opposition had prevailed. If she were right, though, what would have happened to him? Nobody had been reported as having been sacked because of the vote. But nothing got past Lucius Malfoy. There was no way he wouldn’t have smelt out whichever members had turned on him. And nothing would have stunk more than his own son’s treachery, if indeed Hermione’s suspicions were correct.

A note. That was it. She’d send him a note thanking him. Taking out her favourite quill, she dipped the nib into the inkpot and began to write.

Twenty minutes later, her owl was on its way to the glass tower that housed Malfoy Enterprises. An hour after that, there was a light knock on the door and her secretary poked her head in. 

“Mr. Malfoy is here to see you. Mr. Draco Malfoy, that is. Shall I send him in?”

Hermione nodded, a small flutter beginning in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t seen him in two months, a long time. 

When he walked in, tall and collected and so smart in his beautiful traveling cloak, the flutter became ripples that came in waves. Forcing a calming breath, Hermione smiled faintly.

“Malfoy. Hello. I wasn’t expecting you. I take it you received my note?”

Slipping out of his traveling cloak, Draco seated himself. He stretched his long legs out comfortably and nodded, his smile curiously enigmatic and guarded. “I did, yes.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to make this easy for her.

“And it was you, wasn’t it, who got some of the board members to change their minds?”

“Well, me and a few others who’d also voted no the first time. We worked together, really.”

“But…” Hermione was confused. “How did you do it? You must have offered them some sort of incentive for them to change their votes, especially knowing that your father would be deeply displeased when he found out that all this was happening behind his back.”

“Even more to the point, that it had happened at _all_.” Draco chuckled drily. “And yes, I did, in a manner of speaking.”

“What?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

He smiled suggestively, his eyes slightly hooded now, but he said nothing, and in that moment, she understood. They’d been paid off. The dire wolves’ protections had been bought with bribes. Dirty money for a really worthy and important cause. 

Now their eyes met and his smile deepened, becoming faintly wicked. He knew that she understood. That smile silently challenged her to object to the manner by which protections for her beloved wolves had been secured. 

She couldn’t, of course. And in that moment, she recognised something about herself that was perhaps even more difficult to reconcile than the other thing. Ultimately, she really was no better than anyone else. She’d managed, for the sake of the wolves, to make the positive ends justify the less-than-stellar means.

Now that sly smile transformed into an open, infectious grin. “Welcome to the human race, Granger. And for your information, it actually wasn’t what you were just thinking.”

“It wasn’t?” she faltered.

“No. I simply pointed out that they stood to make far more money in the long run with the sale of fake fur than if the dire wolves were hunted into extinction. The logic of the argument was inescapable. And their greed was immeasurable. And I might just have hinted that their annual bonuses would likely be larger this year as well.” He laughed briefly. “Money talks, even clean money.”

“Does your father know that you were involved?”

He nodded. “I expect he has his suspicions, though he hasn’t accused me of anything outright. He’d have to dismiss fifteen other board members, though, if he sacked me. And it would look really bad for him to get rid of his own son and name partner. Well, junior name partner. So he’s holding his fire for the time being. And I’m staying out of his way.” 

“Smart,” Hermione murmured, and then she noticed that Draco was watching her intently. “What?”

He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and shrugged lightly, seeming to think better of whatever he had been about to say. “Nothing. How is it going now that you’re back in private practice? Busy, are you?”

“Moderately, I suppose. It’s still a bit slow, of course. I’m building it up almost from scratch again. How...” She hesitated, feeling suddenly shy. “How are you? What have you been up to?” 

“Oh, well, you know. The usual. Nothing of any real consequence. Doing my father’s bidding, being the public face of the company at functions, trade shows, interviews, all that rubbish. Working with Vicky when necessary.”

Hermione swallowed a smirk. “How’s that been working out, then? Business and pleasure mixing well?”

That question prompted a grimace. “Hah. Not bloody likely. The woman is a vampire. Not literally,” he added, laughing. “But she would drain any chap dry, given the chance. Her ambition is really quite scary.” He looked down at his lap for a moment, then raised his eyes to hers, and now his expression was dead serious. “I didn’t sleep with Vicky, you know. Nothing happened. I haven’t been with anyone for months, actually.”

Hermione couldn’t help herself. “Why?”

Draco smiled crookedly. “Well, it seems there is a woman inhabiting my head, talking to me, stopping me doing stupid things, reminding me of the better road if I’m about to go down the wrong one. Annoying cow, always correcting and instructing. She’s been there for years, and for a long time, I tried to ignore her, blot her out. I never managed to, not completely.”

“And now?” Hermione could feel a deep, hot blush coming on.

“Now I don’t want to blot her out. She’s spoilt me for other women. Her voice is all I can hear. All I _want_ to hear.”

Her cheeks were burning in earnest now, and she looked away. She hadn’t been prepared for the turn this conversation had abruptly taken, and she certainly hadn’t expected such naked honesty. Her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth.

“Hermione?”

As Draco gazed at her, waiting, expectant, clearly hopeful, images from that night in his flat replayed themselves in her head, along with simple, unadulterated fear – of getting hurt, of losing her heart and not getting it back, especially from someone as potentially devastating to one’s protective walls as he would surely be to hers. Behind his words, she knew there was something really huge, something truly life-changing, and suddenly, panic and the blind, unreasoning instinct for flight took over. 

Glancing at her watch, she affected a surprised frown. “Oh gosh, look at the time! I’m expecting a client in five minutes. I really should get back to work now. Thanks for stopping.”

 _Coward,_ said the voice in her head, but still, she felt stiff, unable to bend. Frozen.

The hopeful light slowly faded from his eyes. “Yes, of course,” he muttered awkwardly, getting to his feet and scooping up his cloak. “I should be going now anyway. Goodbye.”

With that, he gave her the ghost of a smile and left. This time, the door closed almost without a sound behind him.

For a solid minute after he’d left, Hermione remained rooted to the spot. Then she wandered into the outer office where Alice, her secretary, sat working. 

It was obvious that Alice had heard every word. Now she looked at her boss, eyebrows raised in silent reproach. 

“What he said – it was really beautiful, wasn’t it,” Hermione said in a very small voice, staring at the door that had just closed after Draco, as if she could somehow will it to open again and draw him back in. 

“Too right it was,” Alice agreed, sniffling into a tissue. “What are you going to do about it?”

It took about ten seconds for Hermione to decide. Then, flashing a grateful smile in Alice’s direction, she yanked open the door and sprinted down the hall, nearly flying down two flights of stairs.

At last, she was outside. A quick, nervous glance up and down the street, squinting in the late-afternoon sunlight, and then she spotted him.

“MALFOY!”

Her voice was piercing in the quiet street. Draco stopped and turned, shading his eyes. Then he saw her in the distance, running flat out in his direction.

She could see his smile all the way down the street. It warmed her and she ran faster, until at last, she launched herself into his arms, hanging on for dear life. For a couple of moments, they simply held each other very tightly, neither of them speaking. Then she looked up at him, tears of relief beginning to spill onto her cheeks, the words coming in a rush.

“I’m so sorry, Draco! Please forgive me! I’m such an idiot. You were right about me. I don’t mean to be, but I _am_ too exacting and critical sometimes, and much too demanding. I know that. But I can change! Because I believe people _can_ change if they really want to, and I do. I mean –”

He laid a finger over her lips. “Hermione.”

She fell silent, eyes wide, her heart lodged in her throat. 

He smiled then. “I am in love with you.”

The smile she gave him in return was radiant. “And I’m in love with you.” 

Finally putting words to what she already knew in her heart – had known for some time, though she hadn’t admitted it – was a glorious relief. There were no more barriers now.

“By the way,” he added casually, “I’ve given my notice at ME.”

His nonchalance was breathtaking, and she stared, astonished.

“You’ve –” 

Draco grinned. “Resigned. Yes. Effective immediately after the second vote. I wanted to be sure it went through before I left. This means, of course, that I’m now poor.”

“Excellent.” Hermione laughed out loud in delight. 

“Poor, as in we’ll have to do our own cooking and washing up every third Sunday. Does that work for you?”

Hermione’s answering smile was serene. “As long as _I_ don’t have to work for you, we’ll be fine.”

“Good. That’s settled. Now then…” Draco tipped her chin up, a wolfish gleam in his eye. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for ages.” He bent his head, nuzzling her neck and tickling her ear lobe with a brush of his lips. 

She sighed with pleasure, shivering slightly, her eyes drifting shut. “Is that all?” she murmured. “Surely you can do better than that. Unless your reputed skills are just a load of bollocks.”

She could feel him chuckle against the hollow of her throat, and then he continued his meandering explorations, caressing her cheeks, her eyelids, and the tip of her nose.

At long last, his mouth found hers. The first kisses were gentle and incredibly sweet. But before long, they grew demanding, hungry, and deep. 

At last, they broke apart, breathless. 

“So, counsellor," he murmured, smiling, as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Is my reputation still intact? Or have I lost my touch?”

Hermione shook her head and sighed. “I shall need more evidence, I’m afraid. Quite a bit more. Preferably not gathered on a billiards table. By the way, I think you might have to get rid of that thing.”

Draco laughed out loud then. “I already have done. Had it sent to Vicky last week, with my compliments.”

“Oh, gosh! You didn’t! What did she do?”

He gave a rueful chuckle. “She slapped my face the next morning. And then she quit.”

Hermione couldn’t help feeling deliciously gleeful. “Did she? Oh dear. What a shame. Now, about that additional evidence…”

It was the work of three seconds to Apparate into Draco’s penthouse flat. Needless to say, the requisite evidence was duly (and amply) collected and judged highly satisfactory by the firm’s ex in-house counsel.  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Epilogue

  
  
  
1 January 2014  
Five months later

 

The article would have been difficult to miss. It was the special New Year’s Day edition of Witch Weekly, the big issue crammed with news, fashions, gossip, celebrity doings, the lot. 

Victoria Eldridge had been relaxing in the salon, her hair slathered with Colour Glow, a potion created to magically enhance one’s natural hair colour or, if one so desired, change it completely with just the touch of the accompanying wand. A woman could conceivably go through fifty different shades in a matter of minutes, the hypothetical and highly accurate results showing up in her mirrored reflection. 

Just now, Vicky was aiming for flame red. She was going to a holiday party that evening and wanted to really turn some heads. A variety of shades flashed by, and with each one, she clucked her tongue and shook her head at the mirror, which dutifully offered a succession of new images as she touched the wand to her hair.

As the new images appeared, she suddenly spotted something else in the mirror’s reflection; behind her, an older witch with intensely red lipstick was leafing through a magazine as her toenails were being painted. A photo was moving on the open page on her lap. To Vicky’s growing horror, there was something uncomfortably familiar about the couple in the photo; setting down the wand and mirror, she advanced purposefully toward the unsuspecting woman with the magazine.

“Mind if I have a look?” Vicky gave the older woman a saccharine smile and held out her hand.

“I’m nearly finished with it. Done in a tic,” the woman said cheerfully, returning her attention to the photo once again. “Oh, my,” she sighed. “Don’t they make a gorgeous couple!”

Uninvited, Vicky peered over the woman’s shoulder to get a better look. What greeted her was the image of the last two people she wanted to see. Worse still, they were embracing and looking nauseatingly happy. On the young woman’s left hand, a tasteful diamond sparkled. 

“Mr. Draco Aquila Malfoy and Ms. Hermione Jean Granger have announced their engagement,” the article read. “The nuptials are planned for this coming June. Although the happy couple have known each other since childhood, they had not seen each other in more than a decade when Mr. Malfoy, formerly of Malfoy Enterprises and currently the head of his own public relations firm, hired Ms. Granger to fill the position of solicitor at ME three and a half years ago.

“Ms. Granger has since returned to private practice, specialising in environmental and animal rights cases. Most recently, she was instrumental in securing permanent legal protections for the dire wolf colony in the New Forest, together with Mr. Malfoy, who promoted the creation of artificial fur as a viable alternative and established Malfoy Enterprises as the industry leader in progressive environmental and animal welfare issues.

"A celebration of the betrothal will be held later this month at the Malfoy country estate in Wiltshire.”

Vicky had been peering so closely at the page that her head was practically in the other woman’s lap. Now she straightened and just stood there, the Colour Glow beginning to drip down the back of her neck. She seemed to be in a daze.

“What’s the matter, love?” the older witch asked. Then she stared at Vicky, her eyes narrowing briefly. “Do you know them?” Without waiting for an answer, she rattled on cheerfully. “Because _I_ do. I was there when it all began. Something was bound to happen between those two, I just _knew_ it! I told Rosemary and Sybil on the third floor, I said, ‘Keep your eye on those two!’ And I was right.” She beamed triumphantly and then remembered. “Oh! D'you still want the magazine, then?”

Vicky glared at her, the words escaping through gritted teeth. “No, thank you.” 

The loo provided a welcome refuge, and she sat down on one of the toilet seats, pleasantly vindictive thoughts filling her head. How she’d love to send them a very special engagement present they’d never forget, for instance. If only she hadn’t reduced that bloody pool table to matchsticks. 

The torrent of vitriol gradually slowed to a trickle and she sighed, visibly deflated. She no longer worked at Malfoy Enterprises and she’d lost all chance of snagging the man who stood to inherit a veritable fortune one day. But there was always tonight. The list of eligible, very rich bachelors who would attend was long, and she’d committed it to memory. With her good looks and brilliant professional credentials (never mind that she’d quit her most recent, rather short-lived job in a fit of pique), she’d be sure to hook one of them. Resolved and feeling much better suddenly, she exited the toilet, returning to the main salon area.

Then a voice broke into her thoughts. “Come along, then. Time to rinse. Past time, really.”

The hairdresser sat her down and she leaned back, lowering her head into the sink. 

“How does it look?” she asked, warm water cascading onto her hair.

“I thought you wanted red,” Cecily remarked, examining her client’s hair more closely. She didn't seem surprised.

“Why?” Vicky asked apprehensively. “What colour is it, then?” 

The hairdresser bit back the giggle that bubbled up. “More like vomit, I’m afraid. I couldn’t find you when it was time to rinse. Where were you, in the loo? I knocked but nobody answered.”

Vicky nodded mechanically. She’d ignored the knocking.

“Well, unfortunately,” Cecily continued, “it was left too long. There’s nothing to be done now. This particular potion is absorbed directly into the hair follicles, making the change permanent. It’ll have to grow out on its own.”

The hairdresser turned away, her mouth twitching. She'd never put much stock in the idea of karma before, but if anybody deserved such an accident, it was this girl. Impatient, critical, rude, and demanding, often she seemed to be offering her patronage as if she were doing the salon a huge favour just by showing up. Jumped-up, nasty bitch. This was cosmic payback. Turning back, Cecily offered her now-incensed client a comforting smile.

“Or I could always shave your head.”  
  
  
  
  
  


[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione/10269479_1469348309987766_3112323541811062404_n-2.jpg.html)

  
  
  
  
  


FIN

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Author’s notes:

 _In loco coniugis_ : Latin for “in place of his wife”

Many thanks, as ever, to my wonderful, talented beta, mister_otter! Carol, I’m so glad I have you to depend on for excellent judgment, great enthusiasm, and a canny ear for what works and what doesn’t.

Thanks to Marc Lawrence, director and screenwriter for “Two Weeks’ Notice,” for a couple of lines of dialogue I pulled directly from the movie. They both come towards the end of the story, when Draco tells Hermione, “You ARE a cause!” and later, when she reassures him, “As long as _I_ don’t have to work for you, we’ll be fine.” They were just too perfect to pass up. The next-to-last scene as a whole is very much in the spirit of the final scene in the movie as well, and I’d like to offer my version as an homage.

Finally, huge thanks to Titesilve for the gorgeous banner! She surprised me with it and I love it! Thanks so much, Sandrine!


End file.
